


The Final Bride

by Franzbibliothek



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Fairytale Themes, Genosha, Literary References & Allusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 08:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzbibliothek/pseuds/Franzbibliothek
Summary: In the beginning, Charles Xavier pulled a man from the water, or rather— In the beginning, Charles Xavier crossed paths with the Big Bad Wolf who was determined to lead good, little professors astray... not that Charles much minded.





	The Final Bride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bikenesmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikenesmith/gifts).



> Inspiration taken from bikenesmith’s a softer world edit which can be found at: https://bikenesmith.tumblr.com/post/130100524410/xmfc-a-softer-world-2

_She then took the little key, and opened the door, trembling. At first she could not see anything plainly, because the windows were shut. After some moments she began to perceive that the floor was all covered over with clotted blood, on which lay the bodies of several dead women, ranged against the walls. (These were all the wives whom Blue Beard had married and murdered, one after another.) She thought she should have died for fear, and the key, which she, pulled out of the lock, fell out of her hand._

**Blue Beard**

In the beginning, Charles Xavier pulled a man from the water, or rather— In the beginning, Charles Xavier crossed paths with the Big Bad Wolf who was determined to lead good, little professors astray... not that Charles much minded. Erik's seduction technique was subtle but effective:

"You take the bed closer to the door. If anyone breaks in they'll be so busy murdering you that I'll be able to pick them off."

"That girl you were flirting with was going to pickpocket you until she decided fleeing was the better option. I take it back, your lines are good for something."

"You know, I can think of six different ways to kill a man with this soup spoon."

One day, their car broke down in the middle of nowhere and even Charles couldn't sense another human mind for miles and miles. Erik swore and fought with the engine until Charles finally pulled him off the road to a nearby meadow. There were flowers to pick and no one to wonder why they were running late. Charles never managed to get the grass stains out of that pair of trousers, but he did get a chance to see what big everythings Erik had.

The rosy bite marks on Charles's shoulder hadn’t faded for days.

However, by the time they tactically retreated to the mansion, Charles's understanding of Erik began to undergo a metamorphosis. It was much harder to think of Erik as just some kind of uniquely intriguing creature when he was in Charles's study, sipping his wine and critiquing his taste in books.

"No, I'm not going to simply let you sniff at Ovid. It's Ovid!" Charles said.

"It's simply a catalog of increasing improbable sexual interludes set to meter. If you're so impressed, I can think of some verses written in a WC in Buenos Aires probably worthy of inclusion."

"Next you're going to tell me you don't care for Catallus," Charles accused.

Erik stared. “I wonder, as a child did you used to curl up with a dictionary and underline the dirty words?”

Charles frowned and took a long swallow of wine before finally replying, “Let me guess: you prefer the Iliad.”

“Of course,” Erik said and took a drink from his own glass, lifting his chin so that his neck was on display on a moment before he drew the cup back from his lips, smiling, his mouth red. “Shakespeare is also acceptable.”

“Oh good, there’s hope for peace in our time yet,” Charles grumbled, but unable to keep a smile off his own face as he strode forward and took Erik’s glass from his hand. “But only Othello, Julius Caesar, and Coriolanus, I think.”

“And Titus Andronicus.” Erik leaned forward so that his lips brushed against Charles’s as he spoke, his voice fond and smug in equal measure. “I’m not an unreasonable man.”

Regardless of his abysmal taste, each day it became more apparent that Erik was no wolf, but some kind of prince twisted into a beast by an evil sorcerer. An unfortunate situation for sure, but according to the literature on the subject, easily enough resolved if there was someone determined enough to break the spell and, well, Charles in more whimsical moments did fancy himself something of a fairy godmother to his little band of misfits. Perhaps midnight was coming faster than any of them would like, but Charles wouldn’t allow them to be caught out with nothing more than a pumpkin and a brace of white mice.

There were nights when Charles would glance out his window, his heart trapped somewhere approximately in his throat (as if he were like the giant who tried to make himself invincible by hiding his heart where no one would find it) as he watched Erik prowling the grounds, swathed half in light and half in shadow. If only Charles could make him see that he wasn’t any kind of monster but a protector. Then once again Charles would silently vow that he would free Erik whatever the cost. And then they could all live happily ever after.

Not that Charles ever allowed himself to really think in terms quite so ridiculous, but there was still something appealing and true to the sentiment. For all Moira’s anxious looks and Erik’s dark predictions, it seemed inevitable that the wicked would be punished and the good would prevail and be justly rewarded. Charles could never stop himself from skipping to the end of the story, something that had always driven Raven mad.

It was only when Erik came out of the submarine wearing Shaw’s helmet that Charles understood him truly as he never had before. Had Charles really been so distracted by Erik’s mind that he had never noticed his blue beard? Then Charles was shot and he ceased to understand much of anything for a long time.

To add insult to injury (a very bad injury at that), Charles hadn’t even been the final bride, instead he was reduced to yet another bullet-ridden body in Erik’s bloody chamber.

* * *

 

Charles wakes up to a lump in the mattress digging into his back and thinks vaguely of a princess with a problem with peas and wonders if she might have been a distant relation.

But some of the discomfort fades when he takes in the sunlight streaming through the window, hears the racket of birds and best of all sees Erik, in glorious dishabille, sitting at their little table, fiddling with the hotplate. The horrible thing breaks without fail every other day, but Erik utterly refuses to even look into replacing it. Charles eventually came to the conclusion that Erik can only be happy when he has an unconquerable foe upon whom he can fixate and left the whole matter at that. Erik jerks his hand sharply back from the mess of wires, waving his hand for a moment before shoving his newly burned fingers into his mouth before carrying on tinkering with his other hand. The morning sunlight catches all the white streaks in his hair.

Here and now he doesn’t much resemble any sort of figure from a storybook, good or bad. For better or worse, he’s simply Erik. And as much as he could ever be anybody’s, he is Charles’s.

Charles must make some sound because Erik lifts his head in Charles’s direction and draws his fingers from his mouth, wiping them on his undershirt as if he doesn’t know how perfectly revolting that is. He fixes Charles with the same look he always has whenever he catches Charles staring at him, as if Erik is the mind reader and knows every single unforgivably soppy thing that passed through his head. Erik smiles, all his teeth on display, and lopes over to the bed and with no ceremony, not even a token by-your-leave, Erik pushes Charles back down onto the bed and starts more or less gnawing on his shoulder. It’s as if he still can’t quite believe that Charles is there and this is the best way he can think of to confirm it. Charles’s hands claw at Erik’s back. Perhaps Erik was still something of a wolf in some ways, not that Charles can complain. With new evidence to consider Charles concludes that the mattress isn’t really that uncomfortable and there are thankfully no grandmothers in sight.

“Erik!” The door to the cabin swings open. It is Joanna Cargill, who prefers Frenzy, thank you very fucking much.

Erik glances towards her, but otherwise doesn’t move. “Yes?”

"Nature Girl says something's wrong with the irrigation channel, apparently the tree roots are getting too wet or some shit," Frenzy says and if she thinks anything of walking in on her boss in a compromising position with his new (old) friend (partner? lover? paramour?) she is smart enough not to say anything.

"Charles?" Erik asks.

Charles closes his eyes and with just a flicker of his power he finds himself looking out of the eyes of a kiskadee who had been hungrily eyeing a small lizard sunning itself on the dam. It is easily convinced to swoop down closer, and the examination reveals some worrying cracks forming in the concrete. It isn't obvious yet, but it would cause them a great many problems if left alone.

Charles lets the bird go with the subtle suggestion that it might have better luck hunting pests in the fields nearby and returns to his own body. Erik is still hovering over him.

“Some of the concrete in the dam is beginning to crack. It’s not a danger yet, but it might be a portent of things to come after the rains we’ve just had. It would probably be wise to examine and reinforce all of our barriers while we’re up there,” Charles says as the desire for tadpoles and a neighbor kiskadee with a particularly vibrant crownstripe is replaced by his more usual desires for a mug of strong tea and Erik to continue with what he had been doing to his neck, once Frenzy was gone, of course.

“All right. Frenzy, tell Dukes, Gentle, and Nature Girl to meet us by the truck in twenty minutes. And make sure we have water packed, I don’t want a repeat of last time,” Erik orders with an effortless sort of grace, looking to the practical everyday concerns of his people with as much zeal as he had ever shown in hunting down Shaw. Perhaps there was more a prince in him than Charles had given credit.

“Got it,” Frenzy says and leaves, bothering at least to shut the door behind her, small mercies.

“Twenty minutes isn’t very long,” Charles says.

“Long enough,” Erik replies, entwining their fingers and pushing their hands into the mattress.

It occurs to Charles, far from the first time, that the hand clasping his is stained with blood. While many of those Erik had harmed over the years were certainly guilty of terrible crimes, and likely deserved their fates, that was by no means true for all of them. Charles has no illusions that if humans were to try to invade Genosha (probable) or agitate for registration (inevitable) that Magneto would rise again and strike out against those he considered the enemies of mutantkind by any means necessary. And where would Charles be when that day came?

This wasn’t a fairytale and Charles long ago had abandoned the possibility of happily ever after.

Charles frees a hand to twist in Erik’s hair, their mouths mash together, more breath and teeth than lips. Charles knows that there’s still a bloody chamber in Erik’s mind. It should disgust him. He’s the only person in all the world whose tramped down those dark, steep stairs and put the key into the lock, opening that forbidden door. All to see his own body, one among many, on the floor, sprawled out in a sea of filth, one more casualty of Erik’s lusts. It should bother Charles.

But it really doesn’t.

Charles can finally admit it to himself as he pulls Erik closer, panting against his neck. That night in the water Erik had offered him a little golden key already stained and Charles had accepted it. Their little game of guilt and innocence had run its course, and after all, now Charles has his own bloody chamber.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm in the middle of working on a bit of a longer Charles/Erik fic presently and would love a second pair of eyes if anyone would be interested in beta'ing, let me know.
> 
> references include: Red Riding Hood, animal groom/bride stories in general, Cinderella, Ovid's Metamorphoses (whose principle themes include love, transformation and violence), Catullus (a roman poet known among other things for erotic poems about both men and women), Homer's Illiad, Shakespeare’s Othello, Julius Caesar, Coriolanus (about a soldier who is unable to adapt to civilian life), Titus Andronicus (a hilariously terrible revenge play), and The Giant Who Had no Heart in his Body, Blue Beard, Angela Carter’s fantastic short story collection The Bloody Chamber, and Princess and the Pea.
> 
> Interesting thing about Blue Beard! In the Perrault version that I drew my excerpt from it’s Blue Beard's bride who is blamed for her curiosity (and less Blue Beard for literally being a serial killer???) and I believe in illustrated editions she is compared to Eve. Other versions of the tale like the Robber Bridegroom are missing this weird victim blame-y aspect, but I decided to use Perrault because I thought the bizarre moral tone actually worked well for this piece.


End file.
